SAILOR'S LOG 

Lew B.Wallace 




Pass ,]i /'„«-, 
Book_ 






GcjpgteN?- 



COFYRIGHT DEPOSm 



Sailors J£og 

c Pagesfro?n a sailor s log, 

giving his impressions 

of sea life, and of 

"Over There" 



'ByJ^w ©. Wallace 






C°py r igft f > Jpip, by 

jQe^v ®. Wallace 

»AU Rights Reserved 



MAR ~o ibid 

.A512488 



TO 

Those good comrades of the Allies whom 

I met in France, occasions marking 

some of the happier milestones on the 

road to Victory: 

Arthur James 

Australian Expeditionary Force 

Monsieur Jas. Jagut 

French Military Force 

Walter C. Reich 

29 Aero Squadron 
American Expeditionary Force 

I dedicate this little book. 

Lew B. Wallace 

Armed Guard 
United States Navy. 






v? 



<^A Sailor s J^og 



The Sailor 

If one were to write of all the 
incidents that occur in the transi- 
tion of a boy from a mere land lub- 
ber to the coveted state of being 
considered sea going, he would be 
forced to expurgate, so I am telling 
you only the lighter side, the side 
that really counts to the boys of the 
Armed Guard who are running the 
so-called (by the Huns) U-boat 
blockade. 

For the first few months he 
must be thoroughly engaged in 
trying to appear like a seasoned 
sailor in the presence of his salty 
comrades. Keeping the starboard 
eye on his trouser legs, lest he be- 
come hopelessly entangled in their 
voluminous lower extremities, is 

3 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

no little part of his training. He 
also enjoys the pleasure of trying 
to keep his neck covered where it 
rises in scrawny splendor from his 
peek-a-boo. Add to this, the nerve- 
racking vigilance that must con- 
stantly be kept to preserve the hil- 
arious angle at which every sea 
dog's pie hat must sit. 

These are a few of his difficulties, 
but after a trip or two across the 
pond he begins to call the hair on his 
chest "sea-weed," then his troubles 
lessen and by a little camouflage, 
he is able to stand in with the salts 
and be considered one of 'em. 

Going Over 

It sounds well enough reading 
from the best papers of the trip 



A SAILORS LOG 

over written by the paid corres- 
pondent who travels in a snug 
warm stateroom, but this is the 
account of a sailor's experiences, 
written after much meditation dur- 
ing the long, cold, dark hours of 
midnight gun watches, and in 
spare moments between mess and 
boat drills. 

We were all very anxious to start, 
as this was our first trip and it 
was some time before we were 
subdued by the pressure of strict 
military discipline. Lights were 
turned out at dusk and when a 
hush had fallen on the ship, we 
would lie in our bunks and make 
fun of each other's home town, tell- 
ing what a good fellow the fire 
department or the police force 
used to be. We talked of every- 

5 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

thing but the war; that we left to 
the newspapers and the ones back 
home. One of the most bitter 
hardships we had to undergo was 
to stop smoking at sundown. You 
can very plainly see it would never 
do to have a multitude of cigarette 
ends glowing on deck until the ship 
resembled Halley's Comet. 

It wasn't all work and gun 
watches, however. We had some 
amusements. There were "The 
Calamity Four" with their two 
comb-a-phones, a mouth organ, 
and a trap drummer (instrument 
a pie tin). Also some hilarious 
crap games with bent forms, groans 
and loud laughing took place until 
an order from the one higher up 
forbade gambling of any kind. 

It was a fine thing to stand on 
6 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

deck before sunrise, clad in our wind- 
proof hoods, resembling nothing in 
the world quite so much as a band of 
night riders from Dixon's Clansman. 
Often we stood watching our 
sister ships emerge in gradual 
beauty from the gray mists of the 
dawn and golden shafts breaking 
through tinted the gray with crim- 
son as the sun gradually advanced 
upon the day. But these beauties 
are for the man off watch, he of 
the watch could not tell if the 
sky is pink or green, but he can 
tell you when a sub hoves in sight, 
that is what he is there for and he 
is on the job. 

I am Sea Sick 

If you ever made a sea voyage 
7 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

and experienced that wonderful 
sensation "sea sickness," you will, 
in all probability, agree with me 
in saying the little sailor was right 
who told his captain he would eat 
nothing but jam as that was the 
only thing on board that tasted 
the same in its wild flight going 
down and coming up. 

I awoke one morning to find the 
sea lashed into a heterogeneous 
mass of mountains and valleys. 
Not to be daunted, however, I ate 
a hearty breakfast also a sub- 
stantial dinner of roast pork and all 
the trimmings accessory *o said 
bird. After which I laid me down 
for forty winks. 

Not long after, about three 
o'clock, to be precise, I was awak- 
ened by the overturning of a 
8 



A SAILORS LOG 

bench and found myself dangling, 
as it were, 'twixt heaven and earth. 
The sensation was one of indes- 
cribable horror, and how I got 
outside will always remain a mys- 
tery to me. 

My next vivid recollection was 
of draping myself in a most inar- 
tistic manner over the rail, listen- 
ing to the wild waves saying, 
"Eventually, why not now?'' I 
heeded the call and "gave up the 
ghost." 

After bounteously feeding 
various animals of the deep and 
camouflaging the ship's sides, I 
returned to my bunk fully con- 
vinced that I was destined to be 
the principal actor in a little 
marine drama entitled "A Burial 
at Sea." 



a sailor's log 
Mess Gear 

One perfectly new sailor, when 
asked, "What is mess gear?" said 
"It's things to eat with." 

I don't think he meant to include 
hands in his statement, neverthe- 
less he could have done so with 
safety, if he were on this particular 
ship. Which one of us has not 
laughed at the dish-smashing in 
some popular comedy? That is 
an every day occurrence with us 
and long ago has ceased to be 
funny; the comedy is bordering on 
tragedy as the supply of crockery 
is giving out and we are still five 
days from land. Not only has 
this daily dish-smashing endan- 
gered the law of supply and demand, 
but it has been the cause of the 

IO 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

disappearance of our mess cook's 
usually placid countenance, it being 
replaced by the haunted look of 
one driven to despair. 

A long table fully equipped with 
the necessary eating utensils, a 
sudden sea, and picture a poor 
skinny mess cook with that haunt- 
ed look in his eyes, stretching forth 
his long boney arms in a vain at- 
tempt to keep the gear from going 
deckward with a disastrous crash. 
It really is surprising how many 
things one lone mess cook can hold 
on to in the throes of desperation. 
There is one piece in particular 
that is especially dear, a large 
white pitcher, the last of its noble 
race, which is used to hold the 
liquid monstrosity we call milk. 
When not in its place of honor on 
ii 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

the mess table, it rests in state, 
for safety's sake, in the mess 
cook's bunk, tenderly wrapped in 
a blanket. During a rough sea, 
our favorite pastime is reminding 
him to hold everything, but to 
save the pitcher. 

To complete the difficulty, our 
cook's name is Ignatz. He was a 
nice boy before we sailed, but 
after the protecting influence of 
Miss Liberty had faded, he changed. 
He began his downward course by 
saying, " Gosh Darn it" and went 
down to "gee whiz." Then, with 
the constant smashing of dishes, 
his language has become the kind 
you would hardly find in a modern 
grammar. 

So I would say, with all respect 
to Mr. Theodore H. Price "Con- 

12 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

stant and exquisite pain will 
finally make the strongest man 
unconscious, and uninterrupted 
contemplation of distress is apt to 
atrophy the mind.' , The case fits 
the mess cook and his precious gear, 
and we too have ceased to care. 



The Great Adventure 

The affair cries haste 
And speed must answer. 

— Othello. 

With a feeling of thankfulness 
we put off from the hot, dusty 
docks to be engulfed by the cool 
sea breezes. For all that, the 
feeling was mingled with one of 
disgust, disgust that on ieturning 
each trip we were forced to report 
13 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

" Nothing Doing." So we were in 
hopes of a chance shot at the wily 
sea wolves to dispell the mono- 
tony of a tiresome journey. 

A wonderful calm sea, not a 
ripple; the eastern sky glorious 
in its purple maze, gradually chang- 
ing to crimson and gold; engines 
pounding along with regular beat; 
Old Glory majestically floating 
at the mast; one of those mornings 
that makes one glad he is alive. 
You fill your lungs with the invig- 
orating sea air, look out at the sun- 
rise and up at the sun-kissed Stars 
and Stripes and, oh well, it is a 
feeling that is indescribable — you 
must live it to understand. 

The buzzing of the alarm breaks 

14 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

in upon the stillness. The cox- 
swain on our forward gun ever on 
the job has sighed a torpedo. It 
is only a matter of seconds and 
every one is on deck, the blue- 
jackets at their guns. Our chief 
grabs the wheel and pulls us 
around. Swish — and the torpedo 
passes our bow and picks a sister 
ship. After the shock came the 
roar of the explosion with thrilling 
resonance, and a gigantic column 
of water rises seventy feet skyward. 
The armed guards have not been 
idle. The roar of the explosion 
is immediately supplemented by a 
series of shocks on the vessel's 
side as the destroyers dash back 
and forth dropping death-dealing 
depth bombs. A periscope shows 
up to our starboard and before 
15 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

the fleet convoy boats can wheel 
about, we are sending it a message 
from the U. S. A. 

A sea-plane joins the fray and 
swooping down from the sky drops 
a depth bomb scoring a perfect hit. 

There is also danger lurking 
ahead as we learn, when the guns 
of a torpedo boat explode a huge 
mine. Now, if the Germans think 
or hope to drive the fear of the 
Hun into American hearts by such 
performances, they are very much 
mistaken. No, we were not afraid, 
but we were d mad. 

We are safe in port now and sit- 
ting around the mess table in our 
snug quarters, we think of the 
brave lads out there with their 
sunken ship, and to them in sil- 
ence we give a toast. And we 
16 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

agree that after all our first en- 
counter with a sub was no joke, 
and that like the illustrious John 
Paul Jones, "We have not yet 
begun to fight." 

France 

After spending a few weeks in 
France, I was more than ready to 
agree with the many who think it 
the loveliest land in all Europe, so 
beautiful and rich, and with such 
a mild climate, one must stop and 
think to realize how far north she 
lies, between the forty-second and 
fifty-first parallels. Of course, the 
quaint costumes of the village 
people were both picturesque, and 
I might say, rather amusing to 
one not accustomed to them. The 
17 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

more noticeable ones are of black 
broadcloth, banded with velvet, 
worn with little gayly colored silk 
aprons of delicate hues and richly 
embroidered. Even those not so 
fortunate as to possess the broad- 
cloth and velvet, manage to have 
the aprons which they don over 
dresses of cheaper material. And 
with their odd lace caps of spotless 
white and shining wooden shoes 
are considered rather dressed up. 
Many of the costumes you will see 
on a Sunday morning, sometimes in 
spite of those "make you home- 
sick mists" that take the heart out 
of you, but bother the natives 
not at all. 

One morning we secured bicy- 
cles in the town and set out to see 
something of the rural districts. 
18 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

Out past moss grown thatched 
roofed cottages we rode. The 
country folk came out and called 
"Vive TAmerique" as a welcome 
to us. 

At one farm house, the people 
insisted that we partake of a bowl 
of fresh creamy milk; at another, 
it was cider; and at one farm a wee 
mademoiselle came clattering after 
us in her wooden shoes with an 
offer of walnuts. True, the com- 
bination was a poor one, but who 
could refuse such hospitality and 
show of good will? Certainly not 
a hungry sailor on a bicycle. 

Stopping at a wayside inn to 
rest we saw a young farmer who 
was a good type of the people we 
had met in this district. Desiring 
to have his photograph, I advanced 
19 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

with a good old American smile, 
and started to use my limited and 
over-worked French vocabulary. 
At last I understood him to say 
that he did not wish to buy my 
camera. I could not convince him 
that I did not want to sell him the 
camera. But my French was 
hopeless, and he would not pose 
for us. I settled the argument by 
producing a package of Fatimas 
(You know the saying "Money 
Talks," well in France "American 
cigarettes talk"). While I was 
bidding him an over polite fare- 
well, my companion clicked the 
camera and I secured my picture 
after all. 

At every cross road, and some- 
times at the very farm gates, one 
finds little shrines and crude crosses 
20 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

where the simple country folk 
stop on their busy way to pour 
out their hearts in humble prayer. 

Une Belle Journee a La France 

If Carrie Jacobs Bond could 
have been to-day in this particular 
part of France, she would have 
written lines equally as famous as 
"The End of a Perfect Day." 

Imagine, if you can, a huge 
horseshoe of gleaming white stone 
and sand, three miles in length. 
On one side it is washed by the 
blue waters of the bay and on the 
other is lined with many gray 
stone houses, their red-tiled roofs 
and gilded balconies glistening in 
the sunlight. 

The horseshoe is crowned by 

21 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

an ever moving mass of humanity. 
Grande dames still clinging to their 
ancient costumes in spite of this 
age of modernism and invasion of 
Americanisms pass, often accom- 
panied by little tots in wooden 
shoes, short stockings, and queer 
little black Russian blouses. Then, 
too, the older and more modernly 
dressed sons and daughters mingle 
with the strolling poilus. Here 
and there a dash of crimson flashes 
among them, their officers in their 
distinctive dress. Le Chapeau 
Blue of the sailors with "pompoms 
de rouge" are also very much in 
evidence. There is no need to 
mention the American sailor. It is 
a well established fact that, being 
rather susceptible to propinquity, 
you will always find him where 
22 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

pretty mademoiselle is wont to 
promenade. 

A sleek destroyer creeps silently 
from the base and wends its way 
to the open sea and a giant diri- 
gible glides languidly over the bay, 
casting a fleeting shadow on the 
watching throng, while it keeps 
an observant eye on the waters 
below for possible submarines. 
The whole conglomerate mass of 
color is predominated by the khaki 
clad boys from the U. S. A. 

Add to all this medley, the holiday 
spirit which attends one during the 
first days of Spring and you have a 
picture of " A Perfect Day in France." 

La Place Marceau 

One morning I decided to visit 

23 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

the quaint old market place, so 
when the sea gulls, the first living 
things to respond to the day, began 
circling and croaking above the 
bay, I made my way to the centre 
of the town to the market place, 
a great institution this in every 
town of France. Coming upon 
it unexpectedly, it immediately 
reminds one of a gypsy camp scene 
from some famous old opera. 
There are numerous rows of gayly 
colored awnings and tents, under 
which the old women in their queer 
costumes, wooden shoes and quaint 
little lace caps vend their non- 
descript wares. Back of the tents 
stand the high wheeled carts, the 
little donkeys out of harness sway- 
ing long fuzzy ears and braying oc- 
casionally thereby frightening the 
24 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

lazy dogs who seem to be a part of 
every vender's equipment. 

At the market place you may 
buy almost anything from needles 
and thread to old clothes and fresh 
eggs. An American would say 
"Everything from soup to nuts." 

How I enjoyed this morning 
stroll to the market! Everything 
is so picturesque and affords one 
an excellent chance to study the 
French people from close range. 
To see them walking calmly about 
one might never know that their 
beloved France is at this moment in 
the vortex of a world war. Enough 
cannot be said to make you in the 
land of plenty appreciate the brav- 
ery of these people in spite of all 
the hardships undergone by them 
in the past and the privations 
25 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

they are willing to face before the 
glorious armies of the Allies shall 
bring peace by victory. To me 
it is simply wonderful that they 
are still smiling, a little sadly, 
perhaps, but nevertheless, filled 
with that same indomitable spirit 
with which Jeanne d'Arc led to 
victory the hosts of France so long 
ago. 

A Day at an Australian Rest 
Camp 

Hail, hail the gang's all here, 
So what the 

These words accompanied by 
a mandolin and a guitar floated 
out to me as I tramped up the 
winding road where the rest camp 
nestles snuggly in the hills. The 
26 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

road was a dusty one and I had 
walked far and was rather out of 
sorts. However, the two guards 
at the gate soon dispelled all ill 
feeling by giving me a cheery 
greeting and going out of their 
way to direct me to the hut where 
lived my soldier friend. 

As we came up to the little green 
Y.M.C.A. Hut, a dozen heads 
were poked from the windows and 
the ice was immediately broken 
when a chorus of voices yelled in 
unison, "Lord strike me, a Yankee 
sailor. Hello there, Yank." 

"Hello Ossie," I answered, and 
from then on the camp was mine. 

They were a fine lot, those big 
husky sunburned Australian boys. 
They never tire of telling Yankee 
stories and are proud of the fact 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

that they know all the latest 
American popular songs. 

One of the fellows was very 
enthusiastic about an American 
girl who had nursed him while in a 
hospital. The Australians call 
these American girls "The little 
American Sisters." 

"I often refused to take my 
medicine," he told me, "just to 
hear her say, 'Now do be a dear/ 
and when I told her that I had 
taken it, I liked to hear her say, 
'Now did you, honest to goodness?' " 

After I had spent a good hour 
trying to teach them the very in- 
tricate task of rolling their own 
with some good old American Bull 
Durham, we were interrupted by 
"Chow" call. Of course, I was 
invited to have "tea" as they call 

2S 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

it. I marched with the rest to the 
"chow house" feeling, in my sailor 
suit in this great crowd of soldiers, 
like a fish out of water. 

The mess hall was spotlessly 
clean. The men sit twelve at a 
table and are served with an ample 
ration of meat, bread, butter, 
cheese, and jam. Each receives 
all the tea he cares to drink. 

After tea, pipes and cigarettes 
were brought out and we sat for a 
long time exchanging songs and 
stories until the stars came out in 
force and the smoke from our camp- 
fire drifted idly into the transient 
evening breeze. With reluctance, 
I started back to the city, accom- 
panied as far as the gate by two of 
my new friends. 

As I walked down the road, 
29 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

dimmed by evening shadows, I 
looked back again and again to see 
the lights disappear one by one, and 
when I reached the car, my last look 
revealed a tented city nestling peace- 
fully in the shadowy hills, bathed 
in the mellow light of a summer 
moon, a great, great camp that, 
the very atmosphere spelled rest, 
the rest that a soldier really needs 
after a long grilling at the front. 

Paris 

Who of us has not dreamed of 
Paris, with its flowers and tree 
bordered avenues? I had many, 
many times, so with varied emo- 
tions I alighted from the toy train 
at one of the largest stations in 
that beautiful city. 

30 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

At the summit of the stone steps 
that lead to the street, I paused as 
the streets re-echoed with a ter- 
rific explosion. 

"What was that?" I asked an 
old newswoman near by. 

She looked at me rather startled, 
her wrinkled old visage plainly 
showing her astonishment, then, 
seeing that I was an American, 
she shrugged her shoulders and 
with a half laugh and half sneer, 
said, " Oh, la la, eet ees beeg Bertha 
cough this morning, " then, with 
a derisive little chuckle she con- 
tinued selling her papers as if it 
did not matter at all. 

I took a cab to the hotel, trying 

to puzzle out this new phase of 

human character. This was not 

my first trip to France and I had 

31 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

prided myself on being rather well 
acquainted with the characteris- 
tics of the French people. But not 
until I arrived in Paris did I fully 
realize the extent of the wonderful 
morale of these splendid people. 

Through the opportune guid- 
ance of the Y. M. C. A. worker at 
the station, I arrived at my hotel 
in a cool quiet spot near the centre 
of the city. Here trips were ar- 
ranged for the soldiers on leave, 
and being the only sailor there, I 
was readily taken with the dough- 
boys. We saw Paris, but a Paris 
far more wonderful than anything 
I had ever dreamed of. Paris, 
the city of wide, green bordered 
avenues, brilliant flowers, and sand 
bags; true there is nothing at all 
wonderful about sand bags, but 
32 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

you will never forget them. I 
wondered what Voltaire or Balzac 
would say to all this. 

Away we sped to the Place de 
Republique, where we were given 
half an hour to dream and recon- 
struct the Bastille and live over the 
days of the great revolution, to be 
roughly brought back to the troub- 
led present by the bursting of a 
big Bertha somewhere in the dis- 
tance, and a summons to leave as 
we had much yet to see. 

Up to the Cathedral of Notre 
Dame we rolled and entering into 
its cool dim exterior we spent a 
few moments with Victor Hugo 
and tried to imagine the gay little 
gypsy girl who danced to her death 
in the square before it. 

At the tomb of Napoleon, three 
33 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

soldiers and myself decided to do 
some exploring on our own. We 
founda jolly little cafe on a quiet side 
street where we intended to lunch. 

Of course, I had forgotten my 
book on "Easy French for Soldiers 
and Sailors," as I usually did when 
it was most needed. The boys 
confessed their inability to cope 
with the situation, their vocabulary 
being confined to "Oui, oui" and 
"Sil vous plait." 

I knew we could not sit around 
forever, so I undertook to order. 
We wanted eggs, our old standby, 
and I had forgotten its equivalent in 
French. Nothing daunted I said, 
with the straightest face I could con- 
jure up, " Souvenir le pull." I was 
hardly prepared for the laughter that 
came from a dozen nearby persons. 
34 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

Mademoiselle joined the rest, 
"Des oeufs, des oeufs, oui oui. 
Souvenir of a chicken, eggs." The 
laugh was on me. 

After lunch we wandered around 
until evening. Strolling down the 
deepening dusk of Champs Ely- 
sees, out across one of the beau- 
tiful bridges spanning the Seine, 
now turned crimson by the last 
rays of the setting sun, back to 
the hotel, we realized what we had 
not realized during college days 
and through many books, we had 
the past brought to us alive, 
thrilling and alluring, all woven 
into the momentous present. 

The Return 
If counting the days, hours, 

35 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

and minutes could be called pass- 
ing the time, we did it most admir- 
ably on our return trip. Although 
we were anxious to go, we were 
more anxious to return. You can 
imagine how slowly those watches 
dragged on, but everything must 
end some time, so we arrived at 
last. What a shout went up when 
we saw, framed by the rising sun, 
that dark outline we knew to be 
the home land. Then and not 
until then, standing at the rail 
with bared head in the crisp air of 
that bright Winter morning, did 
I realize the true significance of 
the oft repeated lines: 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself has said 
This is my own, my native land. 



36 



A SAILOR'S LOG 
A sailor's prayer 

You often hear a sisters prayer 
For brothers on the sea 
Or a mother's prayer at twilight 
For the likes o' you and me. 

But this is only a sailor's prayer 
As he sails the bounding main 
He asks each night as he goes to rest 
God grant not asked in vain. 

"Oh give us men and ships with speed 
To carry food and shot and shell 
For the fighting boys in khaki 
Out there on the edge of hell." 

"And when the war is over, 
When right regains her throne, 
Oh, give us twice the ships and speed 
To bring the Yankees home." 



a sailor's pal 

I miss the look in your soft brown eyes 
And your whimper, joyous, deep 
The quivering bit of satin coat 
Lying prostrate at my feet. 

37 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

Wherever I wandered in sunshine and 

rain, 
You were there at my beck and call 
Encouraging pleasures, consoling in pain 
Always ready for dash or maul. 

I think of you often, little brown pal 

As I sail thru the sunshine and fog 

I am lonely at night and thru the long 

day 
For I miss you, my little brown dog. 



MY LITTLE DITTY BAG 

If me buttons all come off 
And me pants begin to sag, 
I'll find a needle and some thread 
In me little ditty bag. 

And if me undershirt wears out 
And seems a useless rag, 
I'll hnd the cloth to make a patch 
In me little ditty bag. 

There's everything from soup to nuts, 
A book of ancient gag, 
There's chewing gum and a corn cob pipe 
In me little ditty bag. 

33 



A SAILOR'S LOO 

But best of all a girlie's name 
May her efforts never lag 
So I may write and thank her 
For me little ditty bag. 

TWILIGHT AT SEA 

When the sun comes down to meet the 

sea 
And sinks to the western fold 
Leaving behind its mystic calm 
And shafts of burnished gold, 

When little cloud ships scurry by 
To the west and out of sight, 
Then, a glorious, golden day gives way 
to the reign of night. 



Deep and clear as the ocean blue 
When evening shadows fall; 
Calm as a balmy day of spring 
When first the robins call. 

Grey as the mists at twilight 
At the end of a perfect day; 
Tender as Mother's can ever be 
"I love you," they seemed to say. 

39 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

Mother, whose eyes are in my dreams, 
With caresses and love for me; 
The crudest thing they ever did 
Was to close for eternity. 



TO YOU 

A vision I see in yonder fire? 

A slender figure standing there. 

With softest eyes 

And the softest hair 

Who dares the flames revenging fire? 

I hold my breath, my heart beats fast, 

Unless it fade with the wintry blast. 

This vision bright 

As a starry night 

Or a precious gem on velvet cast. 

The sun has set, sad night fast falls 
And visions form on memory's walls 
That take me away to the yesterdays 
Methinks I love the voice that calls. 

I know those hands, those little feet 
A lock of that hair, a treasure I keep 
As a pirate bold guards his gold, 
I watch the form mid the fire's white heat. 

40 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

T watch close, for it cannot stay 

Until another break of day; 

Even now it fades from the fire myth's 

raids 
And to my sorrow steals away. 

This is the vision that came and grew 
Out of the fire's bright rosy hue; 
I love it still and always will 
For the mystic form was just like you. 



TO AN AUTUMN LEAF 

Ah crimson leaf that many a summer's 

day hath idly swayed 
By murmuring brook, upon yon sun- 

kis't tree. 
Soon with the dying cadence of the 

robin's farewell song 
You must come floating down to me. 

And then, indeed, what secrets you might' 

tell 
Of loriot love trysts, and of happy 

youths 
Who, with laughing damsels, often 

came 
To rest beneath thy shady spell. 

4i 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

How like a life art thou, my leaf, 
Sunshine for thy gladness and storm 

clouds for thy woe. 
How strong we think we are, and yet 

how weak 
When nature calls and we must go. 



VIOLETS 

She sent me a bunch of sweet violets 
Plucked from the woodland hills; 
Sweet memories of my childhood days 
My heart with joy, they seem to fill. 
There's many a picture on memory's 

wall 
Of days that have happy been 
Once again I hear the wild bird's call 
They seem to softly say 

It's only a bunch of sweet violets 
Sweetheart, she sent to me. 
Plucked from the dear old woodland. 
Tho' far away she may be. 
A message of love they are bringing 
Sweetheart, my love is true 
Though it is only a few sweet violets 
That bring memories, sweetheart, of 
you. 

42 



A SAILORS LOG 

I see again the shining lake, 
The golden sunset sky, 
I see a face for whose dear sake 
A tear now dims my eye. 
Again the summer breezes blow 
I hear the rippling stream. 
And all the days so long gone by 
Pass like a happy dream. 



To the Memory of W. W. A. 

A row of dainty poppies lift their crim- 
son heads, 
Where the morning sunlight bathes 
And kissed by gentle summer breezes 
They nod their sleepy way. 

A purple pansy stands beneath the 
ferns' cool shade 

And down its velvet face a glistening 
dewdrop runs. 

It's head, half turned as if in expecta- 
tion 

For one who never comes. 

43 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

The music of the fountain, as it falls 

and trickles to the pool 
Is just as soft and sweet 
As on that day — when first we met 
And the flagstones of the path resounded 

his quick step. 

A golden oriole rests on the green arch 

of the gate 
And sending forth its deep throated 

melody, 
Startles the bees that drone above the 

phlox 
Happy and content, as he was won't 

to be. 

I sit beside the pool's calm, dusky depths 

And reminesce the while. 

Though he has gone — his garden still 

reflects 
The virile beauty of his smile. 

EVENING 

At last the day is dying, and the heav- 
enly skies of blue 

Are softly covered over with the sun- 
set's rosy hue. 

The little birds are chirping as they 
nestle in the leaves, 

44 



A SAILOR'S LOG 

And the toiling youths are happy as 
they gather in the sheaves. 

With the glory of the passing day, the 

evening sky is lit 
And the purple cloud doors lined with 

gold are closing bit by bit. 
Far flung across the deepening sky are 

banners red and gold, 
And small white clouds of silver fleece 

drift to the western fold. 

Like benedictions sweet, the mysterious 
twilight comes, 

And over the still night sky a veil of 
stars is flung. 

The nightingale is singing to his soul- 
mate in the dell. 

God has created a perfect day, 'tis over 
and all is well. 

Oh wonderful hour of twilight, the hour 

of peace and rest. 
When the unseen artist paints with fire 

yon rugged mountain's crest 
'Tis an hour when our hearts are longing 

for the loved ones gone before, 
Who have fought as we are fighting, 

now at rest to fight no more. 

45 



A SAILOR'S LOG 
THE SNOW GHOST 

Last night when the little village 

Lay in peaceful sleep, 

A mystic ghost from out the clouds 

Began to softly creep. 

He hid in all the corners 

And sat upon the sills. 

He skipped across the house tops 

And danced upon the hills. 

He whistled away o'er prairies 

And dipped his steaming flanks 

Where icy streams meander, and sprayed 

Their sedgy banks. 

And when at last we all awoke 

We found, of course, you know 

That the pranky ghost who came last 

night 
Was only Father Snow. 



46 



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